Soul Survivor
by ncis-lady
Summary: The dust settles. The world resolves itself to blurred forms, and Bucky almost cries with relief when he feels the oxygen flood into his lungs. - The soul can survive a lot, after all. \\ Set after Infinity War (so, massive spoiler warning!), sequel to "From the ashes". Lots of Bucky angst, Bucky/Steve/Sam friendship, subtle hints of WinterWidow.


**INFINITY WAR SPOILERS!**

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This is my sequel to "From the ashes", this time from Bucky's point of view.

Disclaimer: I haven't read the comics so I'm not sure what happened at the end of IW, but this is my lucky guess.

Story contains a lot of Bucky angst, Bucky/Steve friendship, hints at WinterWidow ad the occasional F-word.

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 **Soul Survivor**

 _In the end_

 _As you fade into the night_

 _Who will tell the story of your life_

 _And who will remember your last goodbye_

("In the End", Back Veil Brides)

For a moment, there is only silence. The machine gun feels heavy in Bucky's hand, but he maintains his strong grip and keeps his finger on the trigger. He's been through too many battles to know that you can never be too careful. The fight seems to have come to an end, and still – something feels off.

It's been two years since the last fight and yet his instincts have kicked back in the second he picked up the gun. The soldier inside him is grateful for them, for he knows he can trust them.

The man who wants to find peace hates the fact that the soldier never goes away for good.

Silence.

Suddenly he feels a strange sensation running through his body. It's like fire, but not as hot; like ice, but not as cold; an electric current and numbness at the same time.

His gaze finds Steve and he wonders if he is experiencing the same.

"Steve? What's going on?"

He grips the gun tighter and tries to get to Steve. But in that moment the fire and ice start to consume him and Bucky knows, with horrifying clarity, that it's bad. The kind of bad that won't be fixed with gauze and stitches. His left arm burns, and the coldness creeps up from his wrist to his shoulder. He stares blankly as the vibranium starts to crumble and turns to dust. The strange sensation reaches his shoulder, meanders through his nerves and arteries and –

No, no, no, no.

It's a nightmare. A terrifyingly, vivid nightmare. He's dying, he must be; Thanos has achieved his goal and if he is dying, then –

"Steve?"

He stares helplessly at his friend, fearing that he, too, will turn to dust before his eyes, and God forbid he should watch him die after everything they've been through. Steve doesn't deserve this. Steve stood up to Thanos, he defeated him, he has given his all and death cannot – _will not_ – be the reward. Not for Steve, who has saved him so many times.

The fire spreads like frost, the gun falls from Bucky's numb fingers, and he realizes that the right hand, too, is turning to ash. His stomach lurches then, for this is not the vibranium. This is flesh and bone and blood disappearing and he doesn't feel a thing, _why doesn't he feel a fucking thing_ , and he wants the soldier back to keep a clear head but the boy inside him can't shake the terror that washes over him. He tries to reach out his hand – his hand that is already almost gone and why doesn't he feel anything? -, he cannot leave Steve behind, not again, it's gonna break him and God knows he's broken enough as he is. Steve's close, _so close_ , but still too far, and for a split second Bucky can see a train and snowy mountains and a familiar hand just out of reach. The ash and dust eat away his shoulders; he stumbles as his legs give way.

So this is it, he thinks. This time, it's real.

He's wished for death so many times; he remembers every plea, every moment of despair. But now that everything is falling away – now that _he_ is falling away – he wants to scream and kick and fight because after all the past, he wants to live.

The dust burns in his eyes and he blinks. Just once. The last thing he sees is his own horror mirrored on his best friend's face.

Nothing.

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…

The dust settles. The world resolves itself to blurred forms, and Bucky almost cries with relief when he feels the oxygen flood into his lungs.

Not dead.

He stares at his hands for a moment, scared to even blink in case they turn to ash again, but they stay like they should: one human flesh and slightly tanned, one metal and cold. He scans his surroundings, every muscle in his body tense. Everything is bathed in a strange, orange light. It takes Bucky a moment to understand what's so disturbing: there is no sun.

Not Wakanda. Probably not even Earth.

Not Hell, either. He's sure he'd recognize it.

He sees something shining in the distance, like light reflected from a surface – how can there be light when he can't see the sun? – and automatically he moves towards it. He can't feel his feet moving, but he knows, somehow, that he needs to get there.

His breath catches in his throat when he perceives the object on the barren ground.

Steve's old shield.

Bucky crouches down. The vibranium is cold to the touch. He traces the sharp lines that run across the painted surface with his metal finger. Claw marks.

"I'd fight him again for you, you know."

Bucky flinches where he is kneeling. He sees the shadow looming above him – there is no fucking light?! – and turns his head.

"God, no."

There's Steve, in a tattered uniform with the white star smudged with blood and dirt and a sad look on his face. A sharp pain suddenly runs through Bucky's left side; he gasps as he turns his head and finds his arm gone, again.

"Wha – Steve, are you… are you dead? Am I dead? Is this…"

Some say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. But this is not a flash. He can feel the pain, he can smell the molten plastic and metal, and the human touch when Steve steadies his staggering body is real. But it shouldn't be. Steve shouldn't be here, he's safe in Wakanda, he stayed behind.

"This isn't death, no," Steve says. With a sigh he looks down at the shield. "It's a shame, really."

"Take it then, it's yours," Bucky urges him and picks it up. He's forgotten how light it is. "Take it back."

"You know I can't. I dropped it. I gave up who I was, I went off the radar. I did all that, and all for –"

Don't say it, Bucky pleads quietly. Don't say it, I don't wanna hear it.

"- you."

Deep down, Bucky knows that this isn't true. They've talked about it, more than once, during Steve's visits to Wakanda. Over and over Steve has assured him that it wasn't Bucky's fault, that he would have fallen out with Tony eventually anyway, that they'd had it coming, that it had been about the Accords first. Steve has sworn it. It is Bucky who still blames himself for all that has happened, but Steve would never say anything like that.

"You're… you're not real," Bucky whispers, and a part of him is relieved. Steve's safe. He's not really here; this is his mind playing tricks on him.

Some part of him wishes he wasn't alone.

The Steve in front of him smiles sadly.

"Am I not? Are you? Who are you, really?"

I'm Bucky Barnes, he wants to say, but he finds he cannot speak. His mouth is dry, and then Steve and the shield go up in a cloud of grey ash.

"No, no, wait –"

The dust settles, and where the shield was, he now finds a small book that looks very familiar. He recognizes the colored sticky-notes immediately. It's one of his notebooks, the one simply labelled "3" but he knows what the number stands for. This one isn't pretty. Newspaper articles from decades ago, printed at libraries while trying to pull the worn-out cap a little deeper down his forehead in fear of being recognized. Single words, sentences without endings, scribbled down hastily after waking up from a nightmare before the memory leaves him again. Bucky can feel his hand shaking. The metal arm is back, shining and deadly. He wants to open the book, but at the same time he fears what he might read. What if there are memories in there that he's lost along the way; parts of his life that Shuri hasn't been able to restore in his damaged brain?

Before he can make a decision, the book turns to ash, and he hates himself for his fear. It was just a book. Only words.

He knows better than anyone the damage just words can do.

A pained yell makes him spin on the spot. At the same time he feels something in his hand. He glances down and swallows down the bile rising in his throat. He knows that gun. He remembers every single shot, and as he still stares at the blood dripping from the barrel, the agonized moan reaches his ear. It's a sound he'll never forget, one that haunts his nightmares.

Steve materializes in front of him again, sprawled on the ground this time, his face a bloody mess and his one functioning eye full of fire and trust and the damn loyalty that the Winter Soldier doesn't deserve. Bucky crashes to his knees beside him; he sees the bullet wounds, the blood that soaks the uniform and forms a puddle underneath his friend's body.

It's not real. It's _not_ real.

But the blood flows rapidly and feels hot on his fingers that he desperately presses against the worst of the multiple wounds.

"Hang in there, Steve. Just hang in there."

 _It's not real._

"I would have died for you."

"I know. I know, Steve. Just – not now. Now's not the time to die."

His voice is trembling, his hands are shaking. It feels too real.

Everything about the scene seems familiar and yet so different from how it happened. Bucky has most of his memories back, but the moment on the helicarrier is still partly a blur. Some pieces stand out excruciatingly clear, though. The split second of recognition, when memories rushed through his dazed brain. The sudden clarity that whatever he does, he must not kill this man. The spark of rebellion against the voices inside his head that try to make him focus on the mission.

"You saved me then, Steve. Guess I gotta return the favor now, huh? Don't you dare die on me, Steve. Don't you fucking dare."

But even as he's speaking, something in Steve's face changes. He looks younger, at peace, and his bloodstained lips curl to the ghost of a smile.

"How can I? I'm with you till the end… the end of –"

His voice breaks; his gaze becomes unfocused, empty, and Bucky gasps to stifle the sob rising in his throat.

 _I'm with you till the end of the line._

These words. They've become his lifeline, his anchor in a flood of nightmares, the nine words that drown out the other ten.

He stares blankly at his friend's lifeless body, waits for him to breathe like he did all those years ago on the shores of the Potomac, before the Soldier turned around to leave; but today, Steve's chest remains still.

It's not real, he repeats over and over in his head, waiting for the haunting image to disappear like the shield and book before. Ages seem to pass, like the decades he's spent on his killing spree, and he probably deserves this anyway. He can feel the blood dry beneath his fingertips; it's the strangest sensation, the feeling of the sticky liquid slowly transforming into something solid, molecules bonding in a microscopic universe of death. Steve's eyes stare blankly at the orange sky, blood still seeps from the bullet wounds, and that was _his_ gun, _his hand_ that pulled the trigger, he almost, almost –

"Come on, go away, go away," he begs. "Please, just go away."

Finally, the broken body turns to ash that is carried away by a breeze. Bucky exhales shakily; this felt too real.

"Oh, did it? It surely did when you killed us."

He jumps to his feet, stumbles backwards; they materialize out of the dust, one by one. Blurred faces that slowly transform into clear shapes. He remembers them. Every single one of the thirty-two who face him now with their dead, accusing eyes.

Blood drips from his fingertips onto the barren ground. Thunder echoes in his ears upon the impact, but more than anything he hears a woman pleading for her life and the cries of an orphaned child he cannot see. He feels sick; the coppery taste of blood on his tongue makes him want to throw up. More are coming, nameless, faceless figures, marching to an unheard beat and he knows that these were his first victims. Those he killed during the war.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, trying to keep the ground beneath his feet. "I didn't mean to - I didn't have a choice, I couldn't –"

"There is always a choice."

And he can't argue. He can't. His voice betrays him but even if it didn't, there wouldn't be anything to say for Stark is right. There is always a choice. A stronger man would have made a different call, but he was weak, too frail; he broke.

A broken white boy with fingers coated red.

"The red doesn't seem to come off, does it?"

The female voice makes the breath catch in his throat. The figures disappear, and from the cloud of dust and ash she approaches, skintight gymnastics suit, fiery hair, younger but still the same.

"Natasha."

He smiles with relief as he says her name.

"You recognize me now, I suppose?"

She smirks, the typical grin that makes grown men cower in fear and which sends a chill through his body.

"You're the one good thing that happened along the way," he hears himself say, even though the memories are blurry, and it's the cheesiest thing to say, really, but he can't take it back. Her hands are bandaged with white linen, the shadow of a bruise is still faintly visible on her cheek, and Bucky doesn't need a mirror to know that his own face is sporting a cut at the right eyebrow from their last training session.

"Before everything went to shits," she replies and the smirk turns into something else. Regret, maybe.

"I never meant to forget it all," he mumbles, "and I never meant for you to pay for it."

"We both did, didn't we James?"

She leans into him, gazes up at him with her sad killer eyes, and he wishes he could stay in this moment for longer, if not for ever. It'll fade, though, he has learned that already. Natasha's hands are on his hips; she's swaying on the spot, almost as if she was dancing. He presses his nose against her flaming hair, he inhales deeply; he remembers that night.

"You were my маленькая балерина," he murmurs into her locks, and he knows she's smiling.

"It was a good dream, wasn't it?"

It didn't last. Nothing ever does, he understands now.

"Stay. Please, Natalia."

But nothing lasts forever in this world, and her body turns to ash beneath his hands.

He's alone. It's quiet, an eerie silence that make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He stares at the spot where Natasha disappeared, and he tries to grasp the images that run through his head like dry leaves in a whirlwind.

He's never told anyone about that part of his history. When the memories first came back, he brushed them off as parts of his imagination. He's a man, after all, and Natasha is… well, she's Natasha, badass-smart-loyal-gunfiring-skintight tac suit-Natasha. Even a brain as messed up as his can do the imaginations. But ever since, he's come to realize that it's more than just a fantasy.

A beautiful dream that was crushed to pieces by the KGB.

The silence is almost worse than the accusations. It engulfs him, seeps into his bones, and in the distance he can see shadowy figures that seem to come closer but never reach him. They don't speak, but he can see their empty eyes boring into him from far away. And he, too, feels empty inside, a lifeless shell like them; his body is solid now but it might as well be dust and ash. He thinks he can feel the outer layer of his skin falling away, like cement trickling from a crack in a concrete wall.

The barren grounds stretch out endlessly before him. Hesitantly, he begins to walk, though whereto he doesn't know. The shadows watch him from the distance, but never approach him. He has to find someone, anyone, friend or foe, he doesn't care anymore. Just someone who isn't a memory.

"But we are more than just memories, Sergeant Barnes," says someone, and Bucky flinches and almost trips. A shadow hovers before him.

"We were there," adds a second shadow. "We had families."

The shadow is in front of him, around him, inside him. He can't breathe; he gasps for air but all his lungs get is ash and dust.

The shadows don't have faces, but still he recognizes them, somewhere in the pitch-black corners of his mind. What kind of dark magic is this place? Is this the result of all the times they put his brain in the blender? Are his memories so messed up that things get mixed up, and if so, how can he ever know what's real and what's not and –

He realizes that he is close to a panic attack now, and he forces himself to focus. Breathe in, breathe out. He's gonna be fine. Shuri promised. T'Challa promised. Steve promised.

"But in the end, what are promises but words? Words don't change anything. Actions do."

He knows the voice. Cold washes over him, like a nightmare preserved in liquid nitrogen; it's the voice that haunts him into the darkest corners of his existence. He recognizes the face before he even sees it: the snake-like eyes that try to look friendly but remain cold behind the round glasses, the wrinkles on the high forehead, the small hands that hold the horrors of the world.

"I see you remember me, Sergeant Barnes."

It's not even a question. Of course he remembers. Fiery rage explodes in Bucky's chest and runs through his veins. It's hotter even than the cold terror that tries to numb him. He balls his hands to fists for lack of another weapon and, with a scream, plummets into the smaller man. But instead of an impact, he feels nothings. Zola disappears with the familiar twisted smile on his face, only to emerge again from the shadows to Bucky's right.

"You son of a –"

He'll pay for everything. This time, he'll pay. It doesn't matter if it's just a phantom, a ghost from the past. Here in this place, amidst the shadows and the orange light, he'll get back at him for what he's done.

Zola laughs quietly.

"You can't kill me, Sergeant Barnes. I'm a part of you. You'd have to kill yourself, but you can't do that, right? I know you can't."

Zola's right. It's not like he's never tried.

"You're not a part of me," Bucky replies through gritted teeth. "Not anymore."

Never again. Never again.

With that silent promise in mind, he storms forward again. But just inches away from Zola's toad like face, he is suddenly pulled backwards. He yells in surprise and anger as something grabs his wrists; instead of charging at Zola, he stumbles back.

"What –"

It takes him two seconds to realize what's waiting for him. Within the blink of an eye, all the rage and hate implode, and cold terror takes their place.

"No! No, no, no, let me go, don't –"

His cries are cut short when he feels his head and back press against something solid. Ice-cold metal clamps snap around his wrists with a sickening clicking noise; his breath takes on a staccato beat and yet he can't get air into his lungs. The whirring noise of electric current makes him nauseous and if it wasn't for the chair and the clasps, he'd probably collapse.

This isn't real.

This isn't real.

This. Is. Not. Real.

But the panic _is_ real, the pain in his arm is _too damn real_.

"Welcome back, Subject 36."

He remembers, very faintly, the first time he woke up after the fall. The disorientation, the shock, the fear and agony and the one line he'd repeat over and over, no matter how hard it was for his messed up head to string the words together.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes."

"Not anymore."

He knows what's coming before he hears the electrodes positioning themselves. It's not real, it's all in his mind, he reminds himself, but he can't keep himself from tensing up and pulling at the metal restraints so hard that he fears his wrists might break. It may not be real, but he's aware now that, after all, the pain will _feel_ real.

It does.

He doesn't know how long he's been screaming until he finally slumps back against the chair. Tides of fire still ebb through his shaking body; sweat runs down his forehead and into his eyes. He presses them shut.

Please, go away, he begs silently and waits for Zola and the chair and the nightmares to turn to ash. Please, just –

"We don't always get what we wish for, Subject 36. But I will get my asset back."

Wearily, he opens his eyes. He knows he could just nod and accept. Make it easier. It's not real, after all.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes."

The world dissolves into an abyss of fire and ice; he can't breathe, he is suffocating; he wants to scream, but no sound comes through his chapped lips. It seems to last forever, and it feels too real, _too real_ to take and he finds himself on the verge of begging.

"That's more like it, Subject 36. Let me end the pain and take you back in. You're one of us, after all."

The rising panic makes him blind. He tries to focus on something, _anything_ , but above is only orange sky and the face of nightmares. He's not strong enough, never has been, and through the blur he feels the chair transforming into a metal table that burns cold through his thin shirt and makes his teeth chatter.

"I'm not… I'm… I'm James Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes."

It is vital that he remembers that, he knows it is, and yet he can almost feel the knowledge slip from his grasp. Zola laughs and says something in return, but Bucky can't hear him through the ringing in his ears and the agony consuming his mind and body. He must not forget. Not again.

"My name is –"

But the word doesn't come, and he suddenly finds tears of frustration mingling with the sweat and fear and pain. It isn't real, it isn't real, he knows who he is, he remembered, he knows he knows he _knows_ –

"Bucky?"

There are hands on his shoulders, his arms, his cheek; slowly the pain fades away, but he can't stop his body from shaking. His unfocused gaze finds a face hovering above him and he recoils, tries to get as far away as possible, and tries desperately to free his hands from the leather straps.

"Calm down, it's me. Oh God, Buck, it's me – Steve."

Steve.

Steve.

 _Steve_.

He is pulled from the table and into familiar arms, and it feels real and good and safe. The shaking doesn't cease, but Steve hold him close and steady, and Bucky buries his face against his friend's shoulder and breathes.

"My name is Bucky."

He doesn't know if he actually says it out loud or if it's just in his head, but he repeats it over and over to engrave it into his very bones if necessary. He mustn't forget. Never again. He has both hands curled around Steve's arms, and as soon as he becomes aware of it, he attempts to pull away. He's a grown man, he can stand on his own feet. It's not that easy, though, when his body still shakes from the echo of his screams.

"It's okay. I got you."

But he doesn't. Steve's not here, which means he's still _there_ , and Bucky knows that right now, his friend is devastated. For him, it'll be 1945 all over again. Steve doesn't often talk about the day Bucky fell, mostly because he still blames himself and Bucky doesn't know how to handle the guilt-ridden man who can't see that he never, not once, failed him.

"I know you do," Bucky manages to answer. He looks up at this Steve in his World War 2 uniform, with the helmet and the ridiculous stage prop shield that he's tossed to the side, and takes another shaky breath. "We'll be alright, the both of us. One way or the other, we'll be alright."

It's a promise that's probably not his to give, and Steve turns to dust beneath his hands before he can assure Bucky that yes, of course they will, one way or the other, there's no need to be afraid.

Briefly, Steve flickers before him again, skinny and small and with boots three sizes too large for him. He moves his lips as if he's saying something, but the words don't reach Bucky's ears and the young boy disappears.

Come back, Stevie, he prays, please. Just for a while longer.

"You'll always find each other."

Oh, God.

His heart stops for a second or two before it starts racing so that he fears it'll jump out of his chest. Tears spring to his eyes, and he doesn't care; he doesn't care about the shadows or the chair of nightmares or the empty land he's trapped in.

"Mum?"

The voice barely resembles his own. It's a child's voice, vibrating with joy and excitement and more love than he can remember to ever have felt.

"Oh, my boy."

She kneels down before him, and he falls into her arms, clinging onto her like a drowning man to driftwood. He's scared and in pain, but here in these arms he finds safety and comfort and _home_. Faintly he can hear her hum a familiar melody while she runs her fingers through his hair.

"Hush, my boy. You'll be alright."

He remembers. Oh, he remembers. Winter nights spent at the fireplace when dad fell asleep with the newspaper on his chest and mum tickled him awake; summer days off school when the streets became prairies, jungles, unknown lands to conquer for boys who thought they ruled the world with paper shields and wooden swords; the bedtime stories and lullabies and the small light by the side of his bed to keep the monsters away.

"Please don't go," he whispers and pulls her tighter; it's been too long and he never knew just how much he's missed her until now. "Please."

"You'll be alright," she repeats softly. He feels her lips press against his hair. "You'll find your way home."

But this is home.

"You'll find them."

This is home.

He can hardly speak, so Bucky only stares at her, tries to take in every part of her kind face, her eyes that look like his, her warm smile and her love.

"Don't go," he begs, his voice just above a whimper, "don't go, please, don't –"

But it's not her who leaves. This time, it is Bucky who fades away. The realization makes him choke; he _cannot_ leave, he doesn't want to leave.

"No, no, no –"

"Barnes?"

"No, please –"

He tries desperately to keep his grip on his mother, but his hands disappear and then everything goes dark.

"Barnes, come on. Come on, buddy."

…

…

…

He struggles to breathe. It feels as if his whole body is fighting to stay, and by God, he wishes he could. But as the darkness clears and his eyes fly open, his mother is gone. Instead, he finds another familiar face in front of him.

"Wilson?" he asks with a frown and pulls away from the hands on his shoulders. He realizes that he's slumped on the ground, still in the strange, orange land. But he understands immediately that this time, it's not imaginary. This time it's real.

Mortified, he wipes away the wetness on his cheeks, but if Sam Wilson notices, he seems to let it pass. Bucky makes a mental note to repay the favor eventually.

"Dude, what the hell?"

Bucky pushes himself up onto unsteady feet and shrugs.

"I don't know."

He is still busy trying to process what happened in his mind. He glances at Sam. He looks quite shaken, but he isn't trembling like Bucky, and of course his eyes aren't glazed over. Stupid, emotionally stable Sam Wilson.

"Did you see… I mean –"

"If you mean if I've seen some fucked up shit before I came to, then yes, I did," Sam answers, and there is no joke in his words. Bucky wonders what he's seen, but he's in no position to ask. He's grateful that Sam doesn't ask about his experience, either.

"Any idea where we are?" Bucky asks instead, trying to distract himself from the images that still run through his head.

"Not Heaven, that's for sure." Sam must have noticed Bucky's slight frown, and adds, "'Cause no offence, but you ain't exactly the kind of company I expect to find in Heaven. Not because of that whole Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hydra thing, but let's face it, you're a man. So, not my kind of Heaven."

He winks, and Bucky laughs a little. He's almost forgotten how that feels like.

"You know what, Wilson? This isn't my idea of Heaven, either. But I'm glad you're with me, Sam."

"Here at the end of all times?"

Bucky scans the surroundings with narrowed eyes.

"This isn't the end, now – or is it?"

They're alive. They're breathing, talking, _living_. And his mother promised just as he made a promise to Steve.

Sam shakes his head and rolls his eyes theatrically.

"He's never watched Lord of the Rings. Oh great, now there's two of you who need to catch up on stuff." He huffs. "But first, we need to get out of here, where ever _here_ is. I'm afraid if you don't return to Grandpa Rogers soon, he'll do something stupid. So come on."

Bucky isn't entirely sure if Sam has a plan. The intercom's dead, his watch has stopped, and there's not even a sun at the damn sky to use for navigation. But he agrees, full-heartedly, to move on and leave this place. Maybe, if they leave now, he'll be able to forget just how much he wants to stay just in case –

No. It was all in his head.

She won't come back. None of them will.

He forbids himself to even consider the possibility that Steve might be dead, back in the real world. If he had turned to ash, he'd be here by his side, on his right as always.

He takes a deep breath and claps Sam on the shoulder. He's got one friend left in this world, after all. Together, they might find those left behind in the other.

"Alright. Let's go."

…

…

…

They don't talk much. Sam has tried to keep up a light banter, and Bucky has attempted to join in, but after a while both men have grown silent. It's this place, Bucky thinks. Despite the warm light, it doesn't feel right, and whenever he lets his gaze become unfocused, he immediately sees it all again.

Some part inside of him wishes to go back to the surreal world, he would even endure the chair, if only it means that he gets to see _them_ again, too.

It's something he'd never say out loud.

They meet a few people as they walk. Adults wearing the same expression on their faces as Bucky thinks he has – confusion, fear, tension and that deep ache in his heart that comes from seeing too much too quickly -, children with wide eyes searching for someone who isn't there, and one woman is carrying a toddler in her arms. The little boy beams a smile at Bucky while Sam talks to the woman, and Bucky wishes he could be as carefree as the kid, apparently the only human being in this place that hasn't seen anything bad on his way to this land.

Bucky begins to hate the place. It is cold, despite the orange light. He feels naked without his weapons and resents himself for that sentiment. He doesn't want to be a soldier, and yet it seems like it's the only life he knows. The farm was a nice little dream, but he's learned by now that beautiful dreams aren't meant for him. Maybe it's his curse that he needs to carry a gun to feel alive.

"What happened to your arm?"

He flinches when someone talks to him from the left. A girl, not older than seven, looks curiously at him.

"There's a boy in my school who has a metal leg, but it doesn't have any gold in it."

Bucky shrugs and looks down onto his hand for a second.

"Well, mine's custom-made, I suppose." He hears Sam chuckle on his right side. He groans inwardly. He knows that he used to have younger siblings and got along well with kids, according to Steve, but that was before the war, before… everything. "You like it?"

The girl squints and touches the vibranium lightly with her small finger before Bucky can even tell her not to.

"It's pretty. I like the gold. My doll has a golden dress that sparkles."

This time, Sam actually snorts and mumbles something that sounds a lot like "Disney princess" at Bucky's direction, which he chooses to ignore. Kids. It's marvelous how their small minds jump from one thing to the other, never thinking about what they're about to say, never wondering if their words might come out wrong.

It must be nice to have this sort of innocence.

"Have you seen my Mum?"

A stab into the heart would be kinder.

"No, I'm sorry, but I'm sure –"

A scream interrupts the lie he's been about to tell. Bucky spins on the spot, instinctively pushing the girl behind him. His body becomes tense; his hand flies to the holster at his leg. But it's empty, of course; he dropped the knife somewhere in Wakanda and never got the chance to get it back. He had the machine gun, after all.

But here, all he can do is put his body between the girl and the ring of fire that has appeared out of nowhere.

"What the –"

Sam stops himself at the last second. Several gasps are heard when suddenly a man walks out of – _out of?!_ – the circle. He's tall, dark-haired, and he doesn't seem to be concerned about the fact that he's just emerged out of thin air and landed in front of this weird group of people.

"Follow me," he just says, as if it was the most natural thing to do. Instead, almost everyone takes a step back. Bucky can hear a baby wailing, and the man waves his hand impatiently. "Come on. Barnes, Wilson, I need you."

It takes Bucky three seconds to understand what the stranger has said.

 _He knows my name._

He's never seen the man in all his life, and yet he knows Bucky's name, and immediately he can feel the tightness around his chest that comes with the thought of the Winter Soldier's victims. This may be one more on the list of people whose lives he's ruined.

"And who are you?" asks Sam, voice slightly on edge.

"Doctor Stephen Strange," the man says as if that explains everything.

"And what kind of magic trick is this?" Bucky eventually finds his voice again. He points at the fiery ring and crosses his arms before his chest. In the back of his mind he knows he should probably be more impressed, or more afraid, but Bucky has long decided that nothing is gonna take him by surprise anymore. You get to see a lot, in a hundred years.

The Doctor sighs and steps closer.

"It's not a trick, but that's nothing your simple minds can grasp." He ignores Bucky's indignant huff. "You have to come with me. Thanos can only be defeated in one scenario. Therefore, we need to hurry."

"You know about Thanos?"

"Of course I do." The Doctor is standing too close now for Bucky's comfort, but Sam doesn't seem to be intimidated.

"Anything else you know? Like, what this goddamn place is?"

"The soul stone."

He speaks matter-of-factly, as if he's just stated that the sun rises in the East. Bucky exchanges a quick glance with Sam. The man must be as mentally damaged as Bucky used to be.

"You mean, like… as in, Infinity Stone soul stone?" Sam asks with a nervous laugh. "Are we walking on it _?_ "

"Not on it. _In it._ "

Bucky stares blankly at him, unable to quite process the new information.

"When Thanos snapped his fingers, he thought he'd kill half the universe. But he was wrong about the power of the stones."

"And you know so much about the stones because –"

"I owned one of them. The time stone."

"Thanos took it and you're alive to talk about it? Impressive."

Bucky notices the rest of the small group coming closer, curiosity taking the best of them.

Strange's face remains expressionless.

"I gave it to him."

Bucky almost chokes. He can feel anger boil up inside him. He gave the stone away, although he knew about the powers. This man has magic, and yet he didn't die protecting the stone but instead gave it away willingly, and Bucky wants to punch the living daylights out of him.

"Why?" he spits out furiously.

Strange eyes him with a weary expression.

"It was the only way."

Bucky thinks of Steve, of the devastation in his eyes, of the hand just out of reach; he looks at the girl standing safe between him and Sam; he hears the baby whose loud wailing has reduced to a barely audible whimper, and he feels his eyes burning with rage.

"Screw you."

Strange doesn't even flinch.

"I assume you've seen a lot of things on your way into the stone, haven't you, Sergeant Barnes?"

Unlike Strange, Bucky _does_ flinch. From the corner of his eyes he notices Sam taking one step closer, ready to step in front of him.

"It's what the stone does," says Strange and turns his head to look at all those people before his gaze lands and rests on Bucky. "We relive some of the moments that shaped our souls. They may be twisted, though, and not all of them are pleasant. But the soul survives a lot."

Bucky grinds his teeth and tries to drown out the echo of the shadows in his ears.

"But everything that happens, happens for a reason. There are always things that lead up to these moments, and then these moments lead to others. Life is a combination of an infinite number of actions. Some are random, some aren't; some happen on an atomic scale, others destroy entire planets. An infinite number of events, and I have seen one – just one – in which Thanos can be defeated. And for that, I needed Stark alive, not myself."

Coldness creeps up Bucky's spine. Tony Stark. The name itself brings with it a whole collection of unpleasant memories and a ton of guilt.

"Tony's alive?" Sam exhales a shuddering breath. "That's good. That's a chance."

"It's the _only_ chance," Strange corrects him. "His whole path in life has led to this." He looks pointedly at Bucky, who can feel the ache in his chest intensify. He's the one who destroyed that life in the first place. "Tony Stark wouldn't be where he is now if it wasn't for all that's happened to him. It may seem cruel, and not only to him; but of all the scenarios, this is the one we win. So maybe there's some sense to all of our actions after all."

He points towards the fiery ring.

"I'm assembling all those that are needed to make this undone. Together, we'll fight so that our friends stand a chance. I have Stark on Titan, and the Captain in Wakanda, both where they are supposed to be for our ultimate victory. But they can't do this without our help."

The words sink in slowly.

"Steve's alive," Bucky whispers, more to himself that to anyone in particular, and he didn't know how worried he was until now. He can breathe a bit more easily now, and he knows that Sam is just as relieved as he is.

That goodbye wasn't final.

"We follow you, we get to return to Earth?" Sam asks, and Bucky finds that his own feet have already moved on their own accord. He doesn't know the man, but he knows that if there's just the smallest chance to spare his best friend the grief and sorrow, he'd walk barefoot through the fires of Hell with a smile on his face. Steve has saved him so many times, given everything and more, and it's time now to do the same.

Strange does something with his hand, and the ring increases in size.

"We don't have much time. Get through the portal _now_."

Bucky exchanges a quick glance with Sam. Sam points at the rest of the group.

"Not without them."

"Sure."

One by one, the people step into the ring, and Bucky watches, mesmerized, as they vanish. Eventually, he and Sam are the last ones.

"See you on the other side, Pidgeon," Bucky grins and bows lightly. Sam narrows his eyes.

"I hate you, Tin Man."

Bucky's smile only fades when Sam has disappeared. Strange's words are still in his head, and when the Doctor urges him to go, he hesitates.

"You never answered the question, doc."

"Which one?"

"Do we get back to Earth? This scenario you're talking of, the one we win – you never said how much we'll lose."

Strange eyes him wearily, and Bucky can feel the cold creep up on him with every second of silence that passes.

"Do you really want to know?" Strange asks eventually, and Bucky can barely stand the gaze of the troubled grey eyes. "I know some think it's a wonderful fate to see into the future. But it's a burden, one that I wouldn't wish upon anyone."

"I just wanna know if –"

The words get stuck in his throat. He can't even speak about the possibility, and maybe it really is better not to know. What difference will it make? The Doctor shakes his head.

"It's not yourself you worry about, is it?"

"No."

He's died so many times, it's a miracle he's still alive. And as much as he wants to believe that he deserves it, he can't quite ignore the small voice in the back of his head that tells him he doesn't. The voice that tells him that he should be grateful if at least his death will mean something, when his life has brought so much pain and suffering.

"It'll all be worth it in the end," Strange says, looking straight at Bucky with an unreadable expression on his face. "Every decision, every step along the way alters the future. What I've seen may already be lost. It's not in my hands anymore. All I could do was set the tracks as far as I could. Maybe everything I've seen will come to pass, maybe it won't. But it was the only chance."

Bucky stares at the portal, then at the man, and knows that it doesn't matter after all.

"Well then," he sighs and takes a deep breath, "all we can do is our best."

He's made a promise and he intends to keep it. With that promise in mind he steps through the portal and into the unknown.

 _'Cause it's the end and I'm not afraid_

 _I'm not afraid to die._

("In the End", Back Veil Brides)

* * *

A/N 1: маленькая балерина = little ballerina (acc. to Google translate)

A/N 2: "boys who thought they ruled the world with paper shields and wooden swords" was talen from the song "East" by Sleeping At Last.

A/N 3: Have I mentioned that I love Sam Wilson?

A/N 4: I have no idea if Doctor Strange can actually create portals inside the Soul Stone, but since this is my story, I don't care if it contradicts the comics. ;)

Reviews are very much appreciated!


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